and opinions, but, in fact, a treatise de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. He goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.

As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had, in youth, the feelings of a poet, I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his writings (and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom-his el dorado) but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire-we know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the avalanche.

He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment, the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His

judgment consequently is too correct. This may not be understood, but the old Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might not be deficient in formality-drunk lest they should be destitute of vigour. .

The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favour. They are full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random): "Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done before." Indeed! then it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what has been done before, no genius can be evinced: yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket, in point of genius would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

Again—in estimating the merit of certain poems,

whether they be Ossian's or M'Pherson's, can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the controversy. Tantæne animis? Can great minds descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may beat down every argument in favour of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage in his abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic poem, "Temora." "The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze." And this-this gorgeous, yet simple imagery-where all is alive and panting with immortality-than which earth has nothing more grand, nor paradise more beautiful-this-William Wordsworth, the author of "Peter Bell," has selected to dignify with his supreme contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis :

"And now she's at the pony's head,

And now she's at the pony's tail,

Secondly:

On that side now, and now on this,
And almost stifled her with bliss-
A few sad tears does Betty shed,
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty Fry!
O Johnny, never mind the Doctor!"

"The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink,
I heard a voice, it said-Drink, pretty creature, drink;
And looking o'er the hedge, be-fore me I espied

A snow-white mountain lamb with a-maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was-tethered to a stone."

Now, we have no doubt this is all true; we will believe it—indeed we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.

Even

But there are occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an extract from his preface :

:

"Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if they persist in reading this

book to a conclusion" (impossible!) "will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness" (ha! ha! ha!); "they will look round for poetry" (ha! ha! ha ha!), "and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that title." Ha! ha! ha ha ha!

Yet let not Mr. W. despair, he has given immortality to a waggon and the bee, Sophocles has eternalized a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

Of Coleridge I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, "J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient ;" and, to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthis, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man's poetry.